


(Slightly) drunken confessions

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dorks in Love, M/M, can be platonic, crowziraphale, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:52:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, embarrassed, and Aziraphale thought that he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he seemed he was.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I finally got an Ao3 account!  
> So, as my first ever Ao3 post, I will be posting this really sappy, cheesy fanfic, which I secretly like. Don't tell anyone.

The dusty smell of old books filled Aziraphale’s nose. He paced around his shop, running a pristine finger across the faded spines, the multitude of sepia colours. The dust around him grew disturbed, flustering around like grey tendrils as he strolled across the small room. A smile appeared on his face as he saw his collection of Bibles, glancing at what he knew was Crowley’s favourite: The ‘Buggre all this Bible.’ His grin grew wider as he recalled Crowley’s imitation, his read – out of the ridiculous words, mocking the old, out of date language.

Dismissively, he shook his head, as if to shake away the thoughts. A small smile still stayed on his face, causing the tiny lines around his eyes to deepen. Before the Arrangement, he never would have dreamed of even attempting to befriend a demon. And yet, here he was.

He was very glad he had. Life would probably be ever so cumbersome without his yellow – eyed friend. Praying and singing and white walls, fluffy wings and floating eternally. What was the fun in that? As much as he tried to deny it, being with Crowley was undeniably enjoyable. There was a certain sort of wonder in breaking the rules, that he didn’t like to admit but secretly enjoyed.

Jauntily, the bell at the door jingled. Aziraphale peered around the store room doorway, knowing who it would be.

Crowley grinned at the angel, leaning against the cheap wooden door and gesturing to the ever immaculate Bentley. His sunglasses shone in the fading afternoon sun, and a slight glow from his amber eyes was seen. “Get in, angel,” he purred.

Smiling pleasantly, Aziraphale climbed into the car. As Crowley started driving, he rummaged around through Crowley’s selection of music (which mainly consisted of Best of Queen discs.) His pink tongue stuck between his teeth. Crowley smiled, far more sweetly than you would think a demon could. As the angel looked up, he hurriedly wiped the smile from his face and regained his usual stoic expression.

“Don’t you have any good music?” he asked, frowning. The demon frowned, a crease appearing between his eyebrows, barely visible behind his shades.

“That is good music!” he muttered reproachfully. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Clearly, they had different ideas of what music was. Sighing, he slotted a Queen disc into the system, and let Freddie Mercury’s smooth voice ring through the car.

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asked, tucking a few stray strands of hair away from his face. Crowley smirked.

“Where do you think? To go to some cheap establishment and go get drunk.”

The angel attempted to chide Crowley, but gave up as he realized it was pointless. It was practically a tradition now, to turn up to some dingy cafe and get pissed on cheap alcohol. He frowned slightly, with the thought of how often he really did drink, and thought that perhaps he wasn’t as good of an angel as he thought he was.

The car slid sleekly into a parking spot, and Crowley disappeared from the car and appeared outside.

“You really shouldn’t do that, you know,” Aziraphale chastised. Crowley rolled his eyes, remembered he was wearing sunglasses, and lowered the shades to roll them again. The angel smiled and nearly rolled his eyes back. Nearly.

“Come on then, Zira,” Crowley grinned, inventing the new nickname on the spot. Zira. Aziraphale decided he liked it, as he followed the demon into the cafe.

Several hours later, they were both sufficiently drunk, and stumbled out of the cafe, after being kicked out.

“So what I’m trying to say is,” giggled Aziraphale. “Is that...” he paused, unsure of the point. He had lost it a few hours ago, abandoned it, cast it aside to the back of his mind.  
“Yes?” hissed Crowley. He tended to forget himself when drunk, and often regained some of his snake – like qualities. It was rather funny to Aziraphale.

“I – I don’t know,” Aziraphale tittered. Crowley grinned, looking very serpent – like, and yet, extremely happy.

Looking around for a spot to sit, Crowley hoisted himself onto a concrete pillar of some description, and beckoned for the angel to join him. Rather less athletically, the angel complied. One bottle of wine remained, and they shared it, passing it across to each other.

It was dark now, and a scattering of stars smattered the sky. Crowley vaguely recalled that lots of stars meant it would be sunny. But right now, he wasn’t interested in that.  
He turned and looked at the angel next to him. He didn’t deserve such a companion. Aziraphale was so good, and it was more than just being an angel. He was kind, and sweet, and so perfect. Crowley often felt so inferior to his angelic companion, wondering if his mischief was all worth it.

And dammit, that angel was so perfect. His eyes were filled with passion and emotion, shining a perfect blue, and he somehow, he always smelled like old books, like pages filled with memories and emotion. His fashion taste was still awful, but he was so mismatched and clumsy that it was endearing. Aziraphale was everything Crowley had ever wanted to be, and he should be jealous, but he wasn’t. He would never be. Because Crowley wasn’t Aziraphale, and Aziraphale wasn’t Crowley.

And they survived. They lived. They thrived, in each other’s light. And that was okay.

“What are you looking at?” Aziraphale smiled.

Crowley shook his head, and looked down.

“It’s just – how are you so damn perfect, angel?” he asked. “You have perfect blonde curls, and perfect blue eyes, and perfect nails, and perfect manners and perfect morals and you’re so different to me that you’re practically an alien.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, no doubt about to state his imperfection, but Crowley ploughed on.

“I should be jealous. I really should. But I can’t be. Because I don’t want to be you. I want you to be you,” Crowley laughed, a little.

“And I know I’m making no sense, and I know I’m being extremely soppy, and well, maybe I’m just drunk. But...” he paused. “I really like it. I really like you, angel. I like your awful clothes and your overdone manners, your clumsiness and your dingy old bookstore, and how you always smell like those old pages. And I like your kind blue eyes, and your messy blonde curls, and the way you smile when you think I’m not looking.”

Aziraphale beamed, staring at Crowley like he had never seen him before.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, embarrassed, and Aziraphale thought that he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he seemed he was.

The angel smiled, a great grin that spread across his face, the lines around his eyes deepening further. Lost for words, he hugged Crowley, burying his face in Crowley’s suit. For a second, Crowley tensed against the angel’s touch, but then, leaned into the embrace, inhaling the scent of old books and clean clothing.

After what seemed like a decade, they let go of each other, and awkwardly sat, in silence.

“Don’t you dare mention that to anyone else,” Crowley said, glaring at Aziraphale. The angel nodded, and they both collectively agreed to forget that it ever happened.  
But as Crowley looked at him, at his soft hair that was glowing in the moonlight, and his eyes that sparkled, he knew he never would. And as Aziraphale looked at Crowley, the glow behind his glasses and the way he seemed to absorb light, he knew he wouldn’t either.

They both sat, and angel and a demon, trying to blame their feelings on the alcohol and staring at the shining moon. The evening air whipped at their faces and the stars shone above their heads, and maybe they were a little drunk but that was alright, because when they were together, nothing really mattered.


End file.
